


Subcurrents

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:18:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I want to be what you need."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Subcurrents

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LJ on February 15th, 2006.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> This is different from my usual Metzelly fics, in that it was prompted by cuissesdefer's comment: _I mean, taking the slash goggles off, I'd say with a straight face that these two have hooked up at least once in the past. Or, they haven't, and the ongoing, boner-inducing sexual tension keeps them glued together like flies to flypaper._. It's a new universe, one in which one of them isn't gay - surprise, surprise!
> 
> As always, my most humble and neverending thanks to the lovely cerulean_eyes, who proved, over and over, that she's the most excellent beta. Thank you so very much for squeeing, for pointing out wonky errors and words, for suggesting just the right things. *blows kisses to Oz*

Basti looks up at Metze who's entering the living room. Shoulders hunched, just a short, perfunctory smile without the eyes crinkling, and he knows.

"Hey."

Metze looks up, nods. "Hey." Drops his bag on the sofa and sits down next to it. Like an old man, careful and slow, as if all strength had been sapped.

Basti doesn't know what to say. Metze has heard enough platitudes from the trainer, the other team mates, and anyone else. He can't say anything better nor more helpful. So he just settles for – not saying anything.

They have been friends for such a long time now. And they've always stuck together, had discussions about God and the world in long sleepless nights, voiced worries that would have been unspoken in broad daylight. They have shared private stuff with each other; stuff that Basti doesn't tell anyone else. Fabe, perhaps. But a talk with someone close to you, not just emotionally, but also physically, is really different from a phone call. As of now, Metze's the only guy that knows Basti through and through. Knows most facets of him, what makes him tick, what annoys him, his little idiosyncrasies. And it's the other way around, Basti supposes. Metze hasn't had any close friends in his youth, so it's Basti who's his one and only best friend.

And right now, he doesn't know if he can be a best friend; now that Metze has to fear for his starting place in the team because of the Brenner, good kid that he is, though. And his place in the World Cup team could also be in danger now. Basti knows that he, too, is still shaky, that it would need more to ensure his own place in the squad – to be honest, it would rather require a serious injury of the Fringser to manage this, and Basti's not such a bad friend. But this will probably be his only chance to cut it at the WC; midfielders can't be too old or they'll lose their speediness and agility. And there's always the danger of getting hurt; you don't bounce back as easily as you did in your youth.

Him and Metze are proof of that. Metze moreso with his achilles' tendon, having to endure two operations and dread a third, with missing almost two years of soccer in a time when you _had_ to play. Basti had been there all along, had visited Metze in the hospital when time allowed it, had at first, after the usual pleasantries, haltingly talked of the team, of the matches, retelling them to make it more personal, to include Metze. And he knows Metze was grateful for that. That Basti didn't treat him like a porcelain doll, afraid to break him at the slightest touch – or reminder.

Metze's body has got it in against him, Basti supposes. It really isn't fair to Metze, never has been, but when things like that happen, the only thing you can do is grit your teeth and accept it, go with the stride. But Basti knows of the despair that sometimes overtook Metze; that dragged his best friend down, that made him talk of dropping out of soccer altogether, and afterwards Metze always excused himself, saying that he was sorry for talking such shit, and Basti had accepted the apology with a smile that he had to force upon his face, and they knew that it was not just soccer that was at stake.

Their friendship.

They would never have met without soccer. But maybe they would have, and Basti had idly imagined how it would have worked: maybe Metze would go on vacation, and he'd pick his hotel as the place to rest, and they'd meet like that, and they'd strike up the same easy and warm friendship they've got going now, and it'd be all less complicated.

_Would it, really?_, a voice speaks up, piercingly. _Would it, because there could be other things in your lives; your hotel could go broke, he could be in a car crash driving to your hotel, you could marry a foreign woman and go abroad, he could commit suicide, you could be fed up with managing the hotel, he could be too busy dealing with a messy divorce, you could get addicted to drugs, he could be an alcoholic, ..._

Yes, he does get it, he snaps at the voice in his head. Nothing's ever writ in stone, everything's fragile and always in motion, the proverbial butterfly in Tokyo.

Metze sighs. Basti heaves himself out of the chair, and then he lowers himself down on the adjacent seat, next to Metze.

"Hey."

"Basti." But Metze doesn't look up, doesn't react to Basti's nearness.

Basti sighs. "I don't know what to say." I'm sorry, he wants to say, I'm sorry that your body fucks you up again and again and that you aren't allowed a time of serenity and peace.

But it is as if Metze can read his mind. He looks up, right into Basti's eyes, and nods. And there's the flicker of a smile; almost too quick, but still _there_.

"Thanks, Kelly."

"Anytime." Basti nods, rubbing his hands. He's usually the talkative one, always chatting, and when he's drunk, it's even worse. But now he doesn't even want a drink. He doesn't know what he needs, what _they_ need, what Metze needs. He is out of his depth here. And that's why he puts a hand on Metze's bony knee. Just lets his hand rest there.

And now it would be time for something meaningless. Something like, 'cheer up, old boy'. But Basti doesn't do meaningless. Not for his best friend.

Metze looks up at him again. "It's okay, Kelly. I'll survive, after all." A deprecating smile, and yes, that's what Metze does. Bouncing back all the time. But every time, the bounce gets harder, the weight heavier, and you can see the chinks in the still gleaming armor. Every injury, every drawback, every benched match – all of these add to Metze's outward demeanour: little lines scratched; small, but deep holes punched in; and long gashes clawed, still bleeding.

And Basti fears the last bounce. The last one that will show the world that Christoph Metzelder isn't made out of iron, but of granite, chipped down to the soft innards which will crumble at the slightest touch.

He doesn't want that to happen. But how can he protect Metze from himself?

"Yeah, you will. And – I'll be right there, at your side." Anywhere you will end up, Basti adds silently.

Metze extends his hand; long fingers, dexterous, and they alight on Basti's. Cupping the back of his hand, pressing down slightly. And then they're gone, and Basti's hand slides from Metze's knee as the defender gets up.

Basti watches him walking to the window. It's already dark outside and not much is to be seen, only patches of yellow light on the street. Metze lives almost on the outskirts of the city; this is where seniors live, and young families, and students. People who can just about afford the rent here. Or people who want a bit of quiet, like Metze.

Metze's lean back spills a shadow on the wooden floor, the flickering light of a car driving by disrupts it, sends it disappearing and reappearing.

Basti will stay the night, here, on the couch, as he has done often when he was too knackered after one of their nights spent with the PlayStation or watching DVDs, or just talking and talking.

But this night is different – not really, at that; there were similar nights when Metze had been injured, when he had reclined awkwardly in the sofa, the crutches on either side of him, and a part of Basti had been feeling guilty that he himself was glad that this wasn't happening to him. And he had talked, and talked, lame jokes and retelling stories that Metze had heard at least half a dozen times, but somehow it had been okay.

Now it wouldn't be the time for that, Basti suspects.

Not for words, anyway.

He has to get to Metze. He can't let him hanging in there, not behind this wall that thickens with every second ticking by, until there will be only a façade of his best friend left behind. Basti crosses the room to stand next to Metze.

Their breathing sounds loud in the silent room. Too loud. He sneaks a look at Metze's serious face, at the faint lines even more visible in the weak light, streetlights and moon mingling, and suddenly he sees Metze a way he has never seen him before; a defeated knight, about to lose the shining white scarf of hope that he had bound around his arm before riding out to the battlefield, intent on collecting glory and riches, it now being only a mere bloodstained and torn scrap of fabric.

His arm finds his way up to Metze's shoulder, warmmuscled. And then Metze turns his head, casting half of his face into the shadow, but Basti has caught him well and good; his eyes are naked with fearful despair. His pale face is peppered with light stubble, and the lines of his mouth are blurry, and Basti just nods, wordlessly. It's okay, he tries to tell Metze, it's okay to be frightened. Okay to be afraid of what the future will have in hold for you.

But what he does instead is to press his lips onto Metze's, drysoft, and the tiny shock reverberating through Metze tells him of its unexpectedness, and he draws back, dropping his hand.

Basti has crossed some line, has done something that they don't do, and it doesn't help that they've been teased about making fun of each other on their home page, _"Kelly, read what your better half said? Had a domestic quarrel?"_, as they always laughed it off.

He's not gay. He never has looked after other guys. He has met his own girl years ago, on a beautiful summer day when he was sitting in a café with Fabe and saw her walk by to the table next to them, and he had known, in an instant, that she'd be the one. He loves her soft body with all the right curves, knows the mole right in that fold of her inner thigh, the scarred line across her ankle which had gotten caught in wire when she was a little girl, the way she cracks her knuckles when she's nervous, the tilt of her voice. He wants to marry her.

Metze's just his best friend. Basti had planned to ask him to be his best man. And maybe godfather to his future kids, if they'd stay friends even after their football careers are over.

So why did he do that?

"Basti?"

He shakes his head, wanting to disperse these last few seconds. Mistake, mistake, _mistake_, it echoes in the air around him, _mistake_.

"I'm sorry, Metze," he says, and somehow he's not just sorry for the kiss, but also sorry for everything. And it sounds as lacking as the words are.

"Why?"

He's still not looking at Metze. Doesn't want to see the confusion that's evident in his voice. He did know, after all.

Did know that Metze's, well, from "the other shore", _"dem anderen Ufer"_, as they say in Germany. They never talked about that, but it was just a matter of one knowing that the other one knows that the other one knows and so on. And Basti had never taken part in teasing Metze about his bad luck with women or about his extended dry spells like the other guys did. He knows that Metze has met with girls, has kissed them – he has seen him do it –, and has, very probably, slept with them, too. But he doesn't know about any guys that Metze might have met. And, to be honest, Basti wouldn't want to know.

But still, he has kissed him. It wasn't much of a kiss, but no matter how you look at it, a kiss is a kiss. Just like a pipe is a pipe.

"I'm sorry," he says, again.

And then he feels a hand on his shoulder: Metze.

"I'm not," and before Basti can process these words, a warm mouth is on his, insistent, leaving behind a firm imprint after just a split-second, and then Basti's looking into Metze's eyes.

"I will not be sorry for this, Basti," Metze says, and Basti is astonished at the change that has passed over his best friend's face; the eyes tell of an inner peace, the lines smoothed out, gone. A man at rest with his fate is in Metze's place. Someone Basti hasn't seen before, and he realizes with a shock that this is the real Christoph.

And he's seeing him only now. At the cost of a kiss.

"I won't be, either," he says, and Metze's mouth forms a small smile. And Basti smiles back.

It's nothing to be sorry for, and with these words in mind he kisses him again. It isn't so much different from kissing a woman, actually, from kissing _Tina_, and Basti turns his head away, from Metze's warm lips, sighing. He rests his head on Metze's shoulder, forehead pressed to the collarbone.

"I can't," he mumbles into the fabric of Metze's sweater.

Strong arms encircle him. "You don't have to," Metze says.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Basti."

And perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn't. Because Metze has kissed him, because Metze is gay, because Metze would want more, because – but then, he has started it.

Basti swallows. Metze smells like fabric softener and Axe, and his arms are still around Basti's shoulders. His arms are hanging down, into that space between them, and he can't bring himself to move away, or to do anything.

"Basti?"

He nods, the fabric rubbing against his face, and then Metze's embrace loosens until the only touching point is Metze's shoulder and his head, and then he lifts his head, hesitatingly looking up.

The real Christoph is still there, but somehow subdued, dimmed.

"Thank you," Metze says, quietly.

Basti sighs. How many times can he say sorry? They're staring at each other and the wall's shimmering into existence again, and ivy will grow over the breach, hiding it – but they will always be reminded of it, of what happened just now.

And it will affect their friendship, too.

"I shouldn't have done that," Basti says.

And again, Metze proves that he can read Basti's thoughts. "Maybe it was for the better."

"How?", Basti asks, "how, goddamn it, how can that be better, Metze," and he's now getting angry – at himself, at the kisses, at the fucking weird situation they're in now, and everything else, really – "tell me, just tell me that everything'll be like it was before, no worries, and I'll call you a fucking liar, and-"

"Sebastian, calm down," Metze says, "calm down, please," – "oh, like you're one to talk, you never say anything, you are just this damn hero suffering all the time, you never tell me anything-"

And this has hit Metze, Basti sees it in an instant, and he stops the words crowding in his throat, shovingpushing each other to come out.

"I tell you, Sebastian," Metze says, his voice sounding pinched, hurt, but Basti shakes his head, wearily.

"You don't, Christoph. You don't. Not about the really important things. Not…"

Metze looks at him. "Not what?", and this comes out sharply, and Basti swallows.

"Not that you are in love with me," and there it is. The thing that Metze knows that he knows, and they have always danced around it, around this huge white elephant in the middle of their friendship, and somehow it did work, for five years.

Metze sighs, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets. It's his way of showing that he doesn't want to deal with whatever came up right now; his shoulders are stiffened, too, bracing him. "It isn't something you tell your best friend." Someone who's heterosexual, who's going to marry his fiancée, who's talking about the family he'll have one day, two little sons, perhaps a girl. The proverbial house with the white fence.

"Yeah, right," Basti says, carding his fingers through his hair.

Metze looks at him. "You okay?" He knows that this is one of Basti's nervous tics. And this is Christoph. At the expense of himself, he'll worry about others; it's a way of putting the own misery out of the way so that he hasn't to deal with it.

So Basti says, "No, I'm not, but that's okay."

Metze nods. "Yeah."

And they still stand there, still looking at each other. Still searching for reassurances that they – or better, he, Basti realizes, hasn't screwed everything up by dragging their friendship out into the open, cutting it open and revealing its slimy underbelly. Metze's shoulders have slumped, reclaiming their former looseness a bit. He's still real, but now his appearance is tinged with a certain kind of quiet, wry acceptance, as if it was expected.

As if he knew that he had drawn a blank all along.

It's so fucking unfair.

And this is why Basti touches Metze's cheek, gingerly, concentrating on the way Metze's jaw moves, how the skin stretches, the feel of the slight rasp of stubble on his palm. Again trespassing, but this time with intent. If the breach's already happened, what would it hurt to break out some more pieces? In order to see him better, this real Christoph who has hidden behind it all the time?

"Basti, what-" and then Basti shakes his head, "Shhh," and then his mouth is on Metze's, a slow pressure of dry lips, innocent and yet not, and he suddenly _knows_ that this would have been a very real possibility, another world waiting to be happen, where they'd click in more than one ways, where they'd have another, more carnal layer hidden beneath their friendship, seeping through, until you wouldn't be able to differentiate between the two things anymore, and in this world, he'd have a happier Metze. But there's still the Japanese butterfly to be reckoned with, and maybe the Metze in this world would have had another cross to bear.

_The end justifies the means, _ a voice whispers in his mind, insistent, and Basti strokes the strong jawline of Metze's, following the curve of the bone, down to the neck where he feels the vein pulsing, erratically, and then his mouth follows the trail of his fingers; the rasp prickling his lips, the slight twitch of the eye palpable. The smell of Metze's aftershave. The way the shoulders move under his palm, and he tightens his grip, his fingers moving over the tendons in the neck, the tension tangible.

Metze draws in a breath, shuddering. "Sebastian…"

But Basti only steps closer, just a shuffle of feet, really. The fingers of his other hand trail upwards Metze's arm, immobile, and then he's kissing him again, closes the opened mouth with his lips, feeling a bit of dampness.

And then his tongue slides to the front, parting his own lips, and he's tasting Metze for the first time – but then his best friend breaks the kiss, raising his head.

"What do you want?" Metze says. His eyes are dark, and they're bleeding at the edges; something heavy, something that he has held in check all the time and now it's starting to crumble. This is the point of no return, and Basti _knows_.

There's so much at stake here - _too_ much, if he's honest. And it's him who rolled that little pebble down the mountain, accumulating and strengthening to turn into an avalanche.

"I want to be what you need," Basti says.

"You _can't_," Metze snaps, "you don't feel the same."

All too true, and Basti admits it, "Yeah, I don't, I go for women, but you, well…" and his lips quirk up in a half-smile, without his own volition, "I _walk_ for you." At seeing the confusion in Metze's eyes, he tries to clarify it.

"It's different. It's not the same, but I do love you. And I think, well," and now Basti's smiling, consciously, a bit shy, "if things were different, we'd have more." Metze nods, slowly.

"If things were different." So much hidden in these four words, and Basti can only guess at how much this must have cost him, to admit his yearning for his best friend, something he has learnt, over the course of long years – a good deal of these spent as a near-invalid – to hide, to suppress.

Basti nods. "They aren't, but that doesn't have to matter – not now." He's going to be there for Metze, no matter what. Tina can't exist here, not between them; this is something different, after all, and it's up to them what they make of it.

Metze understands. "I get this night, then?", he asks, a wry smile tingeing his features, half of which is cast into shadow, giving him a mysterious expression. Some stranger, half-known, half-remembered.

"If you want to," Basti offers, nodding. Metze looks at him, searching for confirmation in his face, and Basti holds himself in check at the intensity of the stare.

Finally, something imperceptibly relaxes in Metze, and he nods. "Okay."

The deal is struck. It's the make-or-break time of their friendship, and Basti's aware of the impossibly huge amount he's placed into the middle of the gambling table, and his cards haven't even been dealt out yet. He's playing on sheer luck and bravado.

Metze now moves, slowly – as if _he_ were the one afraid to scare Basti. His hands curve around Basti's sides, just above the point where he's ticklish, touching him softly, and Basti closes his eyes. The hands move up his back, slowly, trailing over his spine, up to his neck, and at the first touch of skin upon skin Basti finds his own lips covered again, and the kiss is – beautiful, for wont of a better description, reaffirming the bond between them, their friendship and the sacrifice they're making now, and Basti sighs into it, opening his lips, allowing.

For an endless moment, time seems to stand still, everything thrown into stark relief – and then Basti initiates the slow tangle of their tongues, and really, a man's mouth is not that different from a woman's; _Tina's_, a hiss from somewhere, and he outdances this threat, his feet sidestepping it neatly, still having the ball under control; he can't afford to throw the game right now at the beginning. No; this is about no one else but him and Metze.

And then he feels Metze's hand cup his face; almost reverently, and Basti angles his head for better access, slides his hands around Metze's neck, the bristle of hair tingling under his fingertips. Still kissing, but now Basti has to war for control as Metze gets more insistent - and it _is_ different from kissing a woman; but just then Metze breaks the kiss and draws back – but his hand remains, the thumb's pad worrying Basti's temple.

Basti smiles at Metze. He can still see lurking doubts and there shouldn't be a cause for them to be there, because this is Metze. Metze, who would never hurt him intentionally; never in his whole life – and both of them know it. So Basti just nods.

A light touch on the other side of his face, a warm hand. "I've wanted you from the first time I saw you," Metze whispers, still looking at him, half-revealed in shadow and light, "I didn't want it to happen, at first."

Basti closes his eyes. Getting real hurts; and he plants a small kiss on Metze's cheek, narrowly missing the mouth, again and again. Imaginary band-aids.

"The first time we phoned, remember? I was so nervous dialling your number I had to redial at least five times." Metze's voice sounds rough, as if unused for a long time. "It was scary; I hadn't felt like that before. I didn't want it; not with you – at first."

He plants small kisses on Basti's mouth, closed-mouthed, then moving onto Basti's cheek, and further to his ear, "But the real choice was: to lose you, and regain my senses - or to keep you and getting more and more lost."

Metze's neck is soft on the downward strokes, bristly the other way round.

"And this meander I chose has been the best decision in my life." Basti closes his eyes and tightens his grip on Metze's neck to thank him for sticking by him, despite everything. Only now he's fully aware of how much this must have cost his best friend.

One hand moves downwards, a warm glow over Basti's back, ending right over his waistband. Resting there. "If I couldn't have you, I at least wanted to see you happy. No matter what."

Basti's nose is pressed against Metze's neck; long fingers are carding through his hair, slowly. "And it was the first time I was loved; not in the way I wanted, but in a way I did need." The hand's making small circles on Basti's lower back. "You saw me, and you liked what you saw."

A small chuckle, and Basti feels the play of muscles over the shoulders under his hand. "You laughed at my dorkiness." He smiles, too, knowing that Metze must feel it.

"You listened to me." And my endless rants, that's what Metze's not saying, but Basti knows. If his best friend really gets emotional about a subject, he's prone to ramble about it for hours at least. Basti had never minded.

"I would never regret a second of all the time we spent together. Not even when we were angry at each other." Metze's neck's surprisingly soft farther down, just a light downing of fuzz, and Basti paints small circles with his thumb. "You always believed in me, even if everyone else would have given up. Without you, I wouldn't have gotten this far."

Basti swallows. "Metze…" This is a love everyone is given only once in their lifetime. Some people don't even get it at all; and Basti should be so lucky to be the sole recipient of Metze's. "Thanks," he says. A simple word, but Metze was always good at reading his mind.

"Yeah." And then Metze's hand is lifting, slowly, Basti's t-shirt up, inch by inch. Goosebumps spread from the slow slither of the fabric on his skin, and Basti shivers. "I dreamt of this." And then Metze's hand is on his skin, warmdry.

"Christoph…" Basti sighs, "what did I do in the dream?"

Metze's hand stills the slow circles on Basti's fevered skin. As he draws back to look at Basti, a smile appears on his lips – a sweet smile. "You kissed me."

"Done," Basti says, smiling back. "What else?"

"You grabbed my ass." The whistle has sounded, the game's on. Basti raises his eyebrow at Metze. "Feisty, am I?"

He slides his hands down the lean back, feeling a little shiver following his fingertips, and then his hands are on Metze's behind, separated from the warm flesh only by the jeans. He has grabbed it in fun, seen it gleamingwet with soapy suds trailing down in the shower, but never really touched it with intent. The muscles tighten imperceptibly. Almost no fat, lean but well-curved; different from a woman's ass in softness, but it fits into his hands perfectly.

Suddenly, he notices that there's a bulge in between them – and that it's _not_ his own. To be expected, sure; but up until this point Basti hadn't really realized what this would mean, loving Metze.

"Basti, are you-" Basti draws his best friend back to him with his hands on Metze's ass. "Hey," he says, "it's okay. Really." There's still something in Metze's eyes, something at unrest, but Basti aims for his mouth again, gaining entry, and he tastes _him_, at a more carnal level than ever before, but Basti does recognize this unique core of Metze, known and familiar from having shared a room with him, or having sat next to him on the bus and snored on his shoulder. Cleanspicy, like pine needles.

The kiss deepens; thrusting and stroking, and Metze's pressing closer, making do of all of his six centimetres advantage. But instead of feeling threatened, Basti gets caught up in the rush, gives as good as he gets, and then something stirs in his lower regions - _that's just your primitive neanderthaler part, the part that would fuck anything with a hole in it,_ \- and he breaks the kiss, shuddering.

"What else did I do?", he asks, his skin suddenly feeling all itchy of a sudden.

"We… we kissed some more," and Metze covers his mouth with a kiss, quick swipe with a tongue, "and we got off our clothes." The next step. Basti nods. "Bedroom?"

At Metze's nod, Basti disentangles himself from Metze, but catches his best friend's hand in his, sweatywarm. He squeezes it, but he honestly doesn't know if this is meant to reassure Metze or him.

The curtains in the bedroom are closed, but Metze switches on the night table lamp, a soft yellow light. Another click – and the door is closed.

Metze's bed is made, blue-white striped linen. Schalke colours, the thought flits through Basti's mind. He smiles at his best friend who's standing by the door, watching him. Waiting, Basti realizes, and he nods again, reaching down to pull his t-shirt over his head. He lets it fall to the floor, and then he's standing there, half-naked, with Metze's eyes on him.

Basti suddenly feels insecure; he knows he's not as broad in the shoulders as some other teammates, like Lars, or – but then Metze says, "You're beautiful," smiling at him. And then Metze's t-shirt joins Basti's own on the floor.

Metze closes the distance between them; and Basti notices how they're almost build the same; leanmuscled, a bit on the thin side which goes with their height, long limbs. "Can I touch you?" Metze asks quietly.

Instead of an answer, Basti raises his hands to rest on Metze's sides, just over the hips jutting out, and then Metze's hugging him, their chests pressed against each other and he feels the slight fuzz of Metze's chest hair scraping over his skin, and the play of Metze's back muscles as Metze's hands trace the flow of Basti's spine and every rib.

_You know what they say about big hands_, a voice whispers.

And then Metze's lips close over Basti's, again, and it's a different kind; almost shy. Basti sighs into it, all his senses attuned to the man in front of him and in a way he himself had never thought it possible; not at all. But here he is, and he involuntarily arches into Metze's fingers on his nipples, stroking and circling them gently, but when Metze's lips leave his mouth to get attached to his nipples, _oh my god_, and Basti moans, closing his eyes. The dexterous tongue flicks over his nipples, and with every breath Metze blows over them they get harder and harder until they almost ache, and then a hand wanders down over Basti's fluttering abdomen, the warm presence calming.

But then alarm bells go off in Basti's head as fingers get busy with his fly and he reaches down, putting his hand over Metze's, stilling the movement.

"Basti?" He has to swallow, his throat suddenly impossibly dry. "Waitasec, okay?" Metze nods, his hand slipping out from under Basti's.

"I'm not going to run, Metze." It's just so different and yet not; and how was he supposed to know that the differences would be blurring and melting until he wouldn't know anymore where he came from?

But there's still a fixed point in his life: Metze. And he plants a soft kiss on his best friend's cheek, pulling him towards himself and the bed so they're sitting down on its edge, Basti's hand still on Metze's shoulder, and then Metze turns his head and Basti welcomes the feel of Metze's lips on his own, warmcomforting, but turning into something more desirous after some moments, and then Basti's being pushed backwards from Metze, gently, the cool sheets warming up quickly under his back.

Metze's leaning over him, fingers trailing over his chest. When they circle his nipples again, Basti moans into the kiss; it's skyrocketing down to his groin, setting off a chain reaction, and he blindly searches for something to hold on to; Metze's biceps flexes under his hand, and then his best friend's mouth alights on his jawline; butterfly kisses, almost reverently, and then it closes around the nipple, warmwet, and Basti _shivers_, hard.

His groin aches and he wants nothing more than to still it; Metze's hand is moving over his chest, down to his side, but always clear of Basti's jeans' waistband, just scraping along with a fingernail. Basti needs _more_, though.

So he turns into Metze's side, catches the upcoming lips with his own, and their groins rub against each other – hot_hard_, and this time it's only about desire and want at their most carnal level. Metze moans into their kiss, sliding an arm around Basti's side, closing the space between them and Basti wants to get even _closer_, and the scrape of the jeans' is almost as loud as their ragged breathing, tongues flicking out for an open-mouthed kiss, talking of want and - _need_.

Need, Basti needs something; and with this thought, he finds Metze's hand, tugs it back from his back and thrusts it in between them, towards his groin. Towards the unbearable heat and want, and Metze's hand jerks, as if it did burn him; but then he palms Basti's bulge, rubbing slightly, and Basti moans, yes, _yes_, he feels all jittery and shaky, like electric cables tangled all together on the fritz, slitheringtwistingsparking, white lightning running through his body and he thrusts up into Metze's touch. Again and again, and then Metze's fingers move; the 'zip' of his fly has never sounded that loud in Basti's ears.

He shivers, of fear or want or need or all of them twisted in one, he doesn't know; the feeling of another hand on his cock – a hand other than his own or Tina's, but a hand that is handling him carefully, palming him and enclosing him in a warmsweaty grip and it's almost frightening how sure this hand handles him.

"Basti…", and he opens his eyes, sees Metze looking down at him, biting his lips; it's _too_ much for him, that much Basti can see in the fearful look. He reaches up to smooth his hand over Metze's side, warmsweaty, rubbing slowly.

"You're good, Metze," Basti sighs, a smile forming on his lips, "_so_ good." And Metze returns the smile, hesitantly. The pace he now sets is slow, torturingly slow, and Basti can't help himself; can't stop pushing up into the hand, now slicked with precome, harderfaster, "oh god", again and again, and it's great, it's _perfect_, and he just needs that little bit more, just that – and when Metze's mouth closes over his, effectively swallowing his sobmoan, he arches up, into Metze, spilling over both of them, long spurts that leave him shaking and boneless.

He has never come harder in his life.

Scrambling up the scattered bits of his brain, or what is left of it, he half-heartedly notices that Metze's hands are busy easing his jeans off his legs. When it gets difficult around the knees, Basti helps him, raising his legs, and then the tight boxers are shed along with them. The wet smears on his stomach and his chest – jeez, there's even something on his chin – are then cleaned off, with the boxers, and Basti smiles at the careful touch.

Metze lets the boxers fall to the floor, leaning over Basti to do so, and he touches Metze's chest. "That was great," he says, still smiling, a faint note of awe tingeing his voice; Metze returns the smile blushing. And because it has become strangely naturally at this point, just like this, Basti kisses his best friend again, which Metze responds to with edging closer, deepening the kiss, his hands on both sides of Basti's face, tracing his features.

Basti's welcoming Metze's tongue, draws it in, slickhot, and he sighs, _since when did you become convinced of the fact that your best friend is the best kisser ever?_, threading his arms around Metze's neck, holding him close. His thigh slides against Metze's; he can feel the hard length of Metze's cock heating up his skin, there's even a damp feeling to it.

It's his turn to play his cards; and while he's busy learning every crevice and nook of Metze's mouth, retaliating equally, he slides his hand over the lean shoulders, the ribcage covered in a layer of muscles, moving under his searching fingers, and he conscientiously skates around the ticklish area on Metze's side, following the waistband around until he feels the warm smoothness of the first button.

Metze breaks the kiss, almost pushing himself off Basti, but Basti has him still in a hold around his neck. "Hey, fair's fair," Basti says.

"You don't…" – "-have to, but I _want_ to, Christoph," Basti answers, his fingers skating around the buttons, clumsily at first because it's different to be on the other side, but then he's figuring it out, the heat seeping through the jeans, growing with every button that slides open, and then he's done, and although he didn't want to, at first, he now looks down, along the lean lines of their bodies, and there it is; jutting out from the open v of the fly, into the space between them.

Slightly thicker, from what he can see, but around the same length, surrounded by dark fuzz, and Basti's hand's still resting to the side of the fly; the heat of Metze's cock notching up the temperature between them; he can almost feel it searing on his skin.

_Now or never_, and he touches it, hesitantly, with his fingers, so _hot_, and Metze gasps, a quick look ensures that his eyes are closed and Basti swallows, sliding his fingers around the thick shaft, remembering that this is what he is here for, that this is what he needs to do, for the sake of their friendship. It feels strangely heavy in his hand, drops of precome being smeared by Basti's fingers as he strokes it, slowly.

Never in a million years he'd have thought he'd be here, with Metze, jerking his best friend off, but… well, and he looks up, into Metze's face. Little sweatdrops collect on Metze's forehead, his lower lip disappearing between his teeth, and Basti kisses the bared throat, the tendons steel-like. And it just needed this to make Metze uncoil as Basti suddenly has to grapple to regain his hold on Metze's cock, he's pistoning his hips that hard up into Basti's grip, a torrent of unintelligible words spurting from his mouth, but Basti can hear his own name.

He closes his eyes, too, and holds on to Metze's neck, the sweat making his grip slippery, but he has now found his pace in rhythm with Metze's pumping, a faster speed than he prefers himself, but he feels that Metze needs something, anything _more_ to end this delicious torture, and he slides back the foreskin some more; the copious precome slicking his fingers, and then he draws his thumb over the glans, pressing down a bit, knowing what this does to himself all too well.

Metze groans, deep in his throat, and closes his hand around Basti's, and there's _such_ intimacy in this gesture; the long fingers entangling with his own, and Basti can feel the jitters from Metze's body carrying over to his own and he whispers into Metze's ear, reaching up slightly, "it's okay, it's okay, love you, it's okay…" and Metze moans, his hips jerking off the bed and then he's spurting over their hands, again and again.

Basti closes his eyes, feeling his best friend's body softening. Metze's hold over his hand loosens and Basti slides his hand out, his own heart hammering in his chest. He never thought it'd come to this; to – to him having sex with a man, and not just any man, but with his best friend. Somehow this is more terrifying and yet, at the same time, comforting. Because it's Metze. And somehow this is the most perfect thing ever that could happen.

Metze's hand is on his shoulder, stroking; as if he knew what Basti was thinking. Of course. Basti sighs, not wanting to look at him, he's not a coward, but it's because he doesn't know if he's getting up and walking away from the table with a fucking flush royal or if there are only twos in his hand. Too much was – and still is – at stake here.

Pushing away these thoughts, tiredness creeps over him and he gets aware of the fact that he's stark naked and that there's a slight draft in the room, spreading goosebumps over his back as he's lying half on, half off Metze's side, his head on Metze's shoulder, semi-listening to the slowing-down breath. So he rolls away from Metze and tugs at the bedsheets, squirming to get underneath them. Metze's not moving, not saying anything, and Basti mumbles, "Come to sleep, Metze."

No answer, but there's the rustling of clothes and Basti knows that Metze's also cleaning himself off, and then he's burrowing under the sheets, but – there's room between them. And that doesn't describe it adequately. The _entire_ Milky Way would fit in between them.

Basti sighs and turns over to face Metze, but his best friend has turned his back to him. He edges closer to Metze, his hand skating over the planes until it finds Metze's shoulder, and says, "The night's not over yet." It has to be enough for now, for his muddled and sleepy brain that can't form a coherent thought now. His body is lined up against Metze's, from chest to stomach to thighs, and he rests his forehead against Metze's back.

Somehow, the tables have turned on him; it's not just Metze who needs his best friend. Basti needs him, too.

A hand closes over his own and pulls it down to the middle and his fingers encounter the faintly damp, warm abdomen of Metze. Their fingers entangle and Basti tightens the grip. It'll be okay. Somehow.

"Good night," he mumbles against Metze's warm skin, and when he hears, "Good night, Basti," he smiles.

*

He's at Metze's, this is the first thought crossing his mind. He scrunches up his eyes, not used to the light from the bedroom window; he usually wakes up in the half-shadow of the couch in the living room.

_Oh._

Slowly, he becomes aware that he's in Metze's bed, and there's a warm arm around his middle, and an equally warm body at his back. And, as quickly as the realization was slow, he realizes that it's okay. In a strange way, it is.

"Basti?" – "Yeah?", he asks, feeling the arm tighten.

"Are you okay?", Metze asks; he must have felt the initial shock coursing through Basti's body. Basti turns around, coming face to face with Metze, who's staring at him, and thank God, he's still _real_. The real Christoph.

Basti smiles. "I'm okay." It doesn't, surprisingly, feel that weird to be naked in bed with your best friend, in close proximity. Somehow it's as if things _should_ have been.

In another world, perhaps. That close to theirs that it would have taken just an infinitesimal change to merge both the worlds. And maybe he has contributed a little to this small and yet huge step.

"I'm okay, Metze," he repeats, and his hand's coming up to cover his best friend's cheek. Just resting there, reaffirming everything that has gone down between them has turned their small world upside down and spinning, out of order, and yet it has stayed the same. They're still Metze and Basti, and that's what counts.

And suddenly he sees the wish to kiss him in the dark brown eyes, but the accompanying flicker in Metze's eyes tells of his fear, of the boundaries of the offer they agreed to yesterday. It seems as if this yesterday is in the distant past now; so much has transpired between them.

Basti closes the distance between them, his lips finding Metze's warm ones. A short press, and he closes his eyes. It's still perfect.

"Hey," Basti whispers against the lips, "I'm still yours."


End file.
